


Look at this photograph

by Builder



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of PTSD, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of past drug use, Sickfic, Vomiting, migraine!Spencer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 10:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11872167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Spencer takes another swig of coffee.  He can practically feel the warm liquid running into his stomach, and it’s less comforting than usual.  It feels sloshy, almost sickening.  The sensation of not-quite-rightness is back, and now it’s amplified.  Spencer wonders vaguely if he’s coming down with something, but he doesn’t feel ill.  He has a mild headache, but that’s normal considering the cloudy weather and his usual insomnia.  Conditions are rife for a migraine, but the usual vision-stealing aura doesn’t seem to be approaching.  Spencer’s stomach feels fine, but he has no appetite, apparently not even for coffee.  He doesn’t feel feverish, but he has a desire to curl in on himself and pull his wool sweater tightly around his body.  He doesn’t feel good.  Not in the sense that he necessarily feels sick.  Just that the needle on the meter of his physical well-being is stuck in neutral; it hasn’t ticked up into the green zone of good.





	Look at this photograph

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, big note of disclaimers ahead…
> 
> I write a very particular combination of conditions into my Criminal Minds works. I tend not to pay attention to which happenings occur in which season. I my headcanon combines details from multiple seasons and jams them into one. I like Spencer with long hair. I like the “dream team” setup with Hotch (leader), JJ, Emily, Rossi, Morgan, and Spencer as profilers and Garcia as the tech/media expert. I like migraine!Spencer. I don’t ship Spencer with anyone in particular. I’m not opposed to Spencer/Morgan, but I also don’t love it. I’m not a fan of Spencer/JJ as a romance or Spencer/(anyone else at the BAU). Also not a fan of Spencer/Maeve, but that’s a rant for another time.
> 
> I’m a little incapable of writing casefic at the moment (I need to get over being less smart than Jim Clemente, so this may take a while). I’ve tried thinking through plausible case ideas, but I always get hung up in thinking it’s too simple or too complicated or too dumb… You know me, I need plot in my stories, so you’re left with plotless plot. Or rather, the beginning of a plot that never gets played out because this is actually h/c and nothing else.
> 
> This particular story is held together with scotch tape and little stars because it started out as a couple of paragraphs in the 200+ page fanfic notes document on my computer. It was totally a drabble, but (you know me) I had to make it an actual story before I posted it. Sorry if it seems like there are bigtime missing moments, but that’s the inability to write a realistic case coming through. I also didn’t want this to be total Spencer + one other character, but I didn’t want it to be “the team takes turns babysitting Reid” either, so…yeah. I'm not 100% happy with it, but I've been picking at it for 4 days and I'm ready to be done and move on.
> 
> I know the title is awful. It's courtesy of Nickelback (but they're not awful).
> 
> The ending is awful too. I don't like writing endings for fics like this, but I can't just leave characters in limbo, so...
> 
> Trigger warnings: read the tags.
> 
> Visit me on Tumblr @Builder051 (It's a lovely sickfic blog).
> 
> Read. Enjoy. Comment.

When Spencer arrives at the BAU, he has the vague feeling that something’s off.  It has nothing to do with the packet of disturbing photos waiting on his desk.  Unfortunately, teenaged girls with bashed in faces aren’t too unusual in his line of work.  Spencer fills his coffee mug, adds sugar, and sits to peruse the file.  Hotch and Garcia will certainly fill in the details when the team moves to the conference room in a few minutes, but Spencer likes to try to deduce as much as he can first. 

 

The pictures show three girls, all with long, stringy light brown hair, crumpled on the floor in various untidy rooms.  The background of the images looks like the low-pile carpet and dark paneled walls common in mobile homes.  These girls were probably the sweethearts of their trailer trash community.  Why would someone kill them?

 

Spencer takes another swig of coffee.  He can practically feel the warm liquid running into his stomach, and it’s less comforting than usual.  It feels sloshy, almost sickening.  The sensation of not-quite-rightness is back, and now it’s amplified.  Spencer wonders vaguely if he’s coming down with something, but he doesn’t feel ill.  He has a mild headache, but that’s normal considering the cloudy weather and his usual insomnia.  Conditions are rife for a migraine, but the usual vision-stealing aura doesn’t seem to be approaching.  Spencer’s stomach feels fine, but he has no appetite, apparently not even for coffee.  He doesn’t feel feverish, but he has a desire to curl in on himself and pull his wool sweater tightly around his body.  He doesn’t feel good.  Not in the sense that he necessarily feels sick.  Just that the needle on the meter of his physical well-being is stuck in neutral; it hasn’t ticked up into the green zone of _good_.

 

Spencer opens his top desk drawer and gazes down at the contents.  It’s a disorganized mass of small office supplies and random items.  A spare roll of tape sits partially on top of several large rubber bands and beside a miniature figurine of the Incredible Hulk.  Two bottles of Excedrin and a bottle of ibuprofen float in the mess, and Spencer briefly considers which he wants.  He’s not really in pain, but craves something to take away his discomfort.  Better over-the-counter than something else.

 

He chooses the Excedrin since it contains caffeine and he seems to be having trouble getting his fix in liquid form today.  Spencer dry swallows two pills, remembering and subsequently ignoring that he should probably take them with food.  He leaves the bottle out on the desk, upside-down, and looks back at the photos in the file. 

 

Spencer’s suddenly filled with apathy.  He’s looked, made some deductions.  He’ll learn more in the briefing.  Given their track record, the team will probably catch the perp.  And none of it will bring back three dead girls.  Spencer folds his arms on top of the desk and lowers his head to rest on his hands. 

 

He closes his eyes and flips through a series of mental photographs.  One of the younger murdered girls laying on a pink bedspread on the floor, a stack of toppled Nancy Drew hardcovers beside her.  Morgan leaning confidently against the driver side door of his new black BMW, arms crossed and mirrored sunglasses covering his smiling eyes.  The evergreen-colored pill bottle sitting cap down on Spencer’s dark wood desk, the expiration date showing that he had approximately three months to generate enough headaches to finish the bottle before it becomes ineffective.

 

“You ok, Spence?” a soft, slightly concerned voice says from over his right shoulder.  Spencer slowly sits upright to avoid dizziness.  Nonetheless, vertigo catches up by the time he swivels his chair to see the speaker.  It’s JJ, her eyebrows furrowed.

 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Spencer says, rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead, which feels like it might bear an imprint of his sweater’s cable-knit cuff.  He pulls his eyes down from her face to the pale tan folders she holds against her chest.  Spencer closes the file on his desk and snatches it up, sending the Excedrin bottle tumbling in the process.

 

JJ tracks the green plastic as it rolls across the desk and bounces onto the floor.  Spencer quickly bends to retrieve it, and his sinuses throb as he tosses it back onto the desk surface.  “Headache?” JJ asks.

 

It’s hard to lie to JJ, even when she hasn’t seen the evidence.  Spencer mentally smooths out a half-truth before saying, “Yeah, just didn’t sleep that well.”  He did have a fractured night—real sleep from 11:30 to 3, then a series of nightmare-punctuated drowses until he finally just got up at 4:45 and flopped on the couch with the _War and Peace_ audiobook.  He neglects to mention that he’s been through the same routine every night for the past 27 days.

 

“It’s tough when we can barely count on 12 hours at home before it’s time for another case,” JJ says as the two of them start across the bullpen to the conference room.  “Hopefully we’re going somewhere far away so you can nap on the jet…”

 

They’re not.  The murders occurred relatively nearby in Appalachian coal country, where the local population’s collectively ill with poverty, black lung disease, and water contamination.  It’s under an hour to fly to West Virginia, complete with takeoff and landing procedures.  The flight’s uncomfortable, but Spencer white-knuckles his way through it, hoping no one makes assumptions based on his pale face and aversion to the coffee machine.  Approaching weather creates turbulence and adds to the uneasiness in Spencer’s stomach.

 

Once they’ve landed and exited out to the cloudy runway strip, he sticks with JJ and slides into the backseat of one of the local police cruisers that’s waiting to drive the team into town.  He puts up barriers with his demeanor to ensure no one tries asking if he’s ok.  Not just because he’s annoyed and embarrassed, but because he still doesn’t really know.  He feels slightly better after leaving the jet, but the weather system is adding pressure to the headache and his stomach is stuck in the not-quite-nauseous state that follows eating too much birthday cake or chugging some revolting vegetable juice.  Like the body is saying __I_ don’t need to actively reject it, but I just want to reinforce that I don’t like this.  So here, feel sick for a while and think about your actions_.

 

***

 

He makes it through the day on a stream of _I’m busy_ and _have we looked into this angle yet?_   Spencer hasn’t taken a second to think about himself, though he’s still sitting on the verge of unwell. When it’s time for dinner, he’s out of excuses. 

 

The whole team knows he’s barely eaten all day, and there’s only one restaurant in town that’s not a fast-food joint.  Emily rounds up some borrowed umbrellas from the local PD, and the team proceeds to walk across the street for a shared meal.  Spencer’s so tired he’d rather go back to the hotel and try to sleep, but there’s no way he’ll get out of dinner without serious inquiries about his health. 

 

Once in the diner, the six profilers are herded into an enormous round booth, which is touted as the best seat in the house.  Spencer tries to position himself on the end, but Morgan slides in beside him at the last minute.  Their server passes around menus and promises to return with water that no one plans on drinking. 

 

Spencer scans the menu, not really taking in the list of homestyle, greasy fare.  The whole place has a slightly stale, oily scent.  He sets the laminated pamphlet on the sticky table surface.  His hands are trembling, so he can’t hold it steady. 

 

It’s hot, especially with the booth’s close quarters.  Spencer feels his forehead, hands, and feet growing clammy, and suddenly he’s overwhelmingly nauseated.  He leans back in the booth and takes a deep breath, willing the feeling to pass. 

 

Morgan looks up from his menu and glances at Spencer, who imagines all color has drained from his face.  “You ok?”  Morgan asks.

 

Spencer fully intends to respond that he’s fine, but when he opens his mouth, he feels like vomit might come with the words.  He stands and gestures for Morgan to get up and let him out of the booth.  “Just—sorry,” he chokes.

 

Spencer walks quickly but smoothly to the bathroom, trying not to jostle his stomach.  He pushes into the stall without bothering to lock the door and immediately retches over the toilet.  There’s nothing to bring up, but his body still contracts, intent on expelling something even if it’s just air and saliva.

 

The second heave is just as unproductive, but it leaves Spencer dizzy and off-balance.  His knees give out, and he grips the wobbly toilet seat and sinks down onto the unclean floor.  Spencer feels like his eyes are rolling up in his head as he retches a third time and finally vomits.  It’s barely a tablespoon of bile, so sour it makes his eyes water and leaves him coughing. 

 

“Reid?”  A voice says his name, and the sound is muddled with footsteps, the creak of the stall door, and Spencer’s own ragged breathing.  There’s a hand on his shoulder, light and comforting. Feels like Morgan. 

 

“Alright, it’s ok,” Morgan soothes as Spencer hacks.  Strings of mucous hang into the toilet.  A final dry heave works its way up from Spencer’s contracting abdomen, and he grunts from the pain and bitter saliva. 

 

“It’s alright,” Morgan intones again, sweeping his hand between Spencer’s shoulder blades.  Spencer shudders and coughs, then tries to spit out as much of the bitter taste as he can.  His eyes and nose are dripping, and his entire body feels damp and dirty.  Contaminated.  Like he’s sweating out toxins that are collecting on his skin.

 

“Ok,” Morgan says calmly, still gently rubbing Spencer’s back.  They sit there, Spencer still hanging over the toilet, for a silent moment.  Then Morgan asks.  “Think you’re done?”

 

Spencer hopes he is.  The imminent nausea has passed, but he still has an aching stomach, raw throat, and dizzy head.  “Yeah,” he croaks, pushing up on his arms and lifting his head and chest from the toilet seat.  Spencer turns his body and leans against the stall wall, slouching so his head doesn’t come into contact with the toilet paper dispenser. 

 

“Ok, good,” Morgan says.  He reaches up and flushes the toilet, though it still looks clean.  He leans against the stall wall opposite Spencer, their legs awkwardly crunched and touching knee-to-knee in the small space. 

 

Another minute of quiet passes, then Morgan invites conversation.  “Talk to me, pretty boy,” he says.  “What’s going on with you?”

 

Spencer takes a deep breath.  “I, uh,” he starts, throat still raw and sore.  “I don’t know.  I was fine.  Then just got really nauseated...”

 

“Yeah, got that part,” Morgan says, still calm, but with a hint of impatient sarcasm.  “But you’ve been off your game since this morning.  Tell me, for real, what’s up with you today?  You think you’re sick?”

 

Spencer shakes his head and looks down at his knees, avoiding Morgan’s gaze.

 

“Do you have a migraine?”  Morgan asks, offering another explanation for Spencer to grasp.

 

It would be easy to just nod an affirmative, but Spencer lacks the motivation even to do that.  He shrugs 

 

“Kid,” Morgan warns.  It’s clear his subtext says _don’t lie to me_.

 

“I have a—a headache,” he says, pausing to swallow.  “Not that bad.  Not light-sensitive.  At least not yet.” Spencer tries to explain, closing his eyes and massaging his forehead. 

 

“Is it making your stomach sick?”  Morgan presses.

 

“No,” Spencer sighs.  Then, “I don’t know.”  He can’t even begin to explain what he’s feeling.  He can’t even begin to understand it.

 

“Ok,” Morgan says.  “Have you eaten today?”

 

Spencer swallows hard again and still doesn’t make eye contact when he slowly shakes his head.  “Not hungry.”

 

“Yeah, I know.”  Morgan places a hand on Spencer’s knee.  “But you’re probably nauseous because you’re empty.  You’re just completely out of energy, and your body’s freaking out.”

 

Spencer vaguely nods.  He knows this.  The unsettledness is returning, but not in an urgent way.  It’s just annoying.  And exacerbated by the growing feeling of stupidity Morgan’s questions are bringing on.

 

“You’re probably dehydrated,” Morgan continues.  “D’you want—”

 

Spencer interrupts him with a hoarsely muttered, “Can you stop?”  Spencer’s on the verge of tears, and he isn’t completely sure why. 

 

“What?  Yeah, kid.  Sorry,” Morgan backtracks, getting his voice back to pure comforting calm.  “You didn’t do anything wrong.  I’m just worried about you.  We all are.”

 

Spencer exhales and presses fingers to the corners of his eyes.  “I know,” he whispers.  “I just…I feel all…” He tries to find a word for the turbulence of physical and mental sensations swirling inside him, but all he can come up with is profanity.  “…fucked up,” Spencer says.  “And I don’t know why.”

 

“It’s alright,” Morgan reassures. 

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

“You don’t have to now,” Morgan says.  “You don’t have to talk to me.  But eventually Hotch has to know.”

 

All Spencer can do is sigh.  “Yeah.”

 

Morgan gives him another minute, then asks, “You ready to get up?”

 

“I don’t want to go back out.”

 

“You have to, eventually,” Morgan says.  “You’ll probably feel a lot better once you drink some water, have something to eat…”

“But I don’t—” Spencer has a hard time getting the words out.  “I don’t want to talk to anyone.”  He feels like shit, and he’s mortified about it.  The other profilers are probably just worried and eager to help, but to Spencer, it’s overwhelming. 

 

Morgan pats Spencer’s knee again.  “How about I go back out first.  I can tell them you’re not feeling so good, and you want to be left alone,” he offers.

 

Spencer thinks for a moment, and silently nods. 

 

“Ok, good,” Morgan affirms, starting to his feet.  He holds out a hand to Spencer, who accepts it and shakily finds his way upright.  He’s trembling all over, and he pauses to make sure the vertigo at the edges of his vision will stay at bay.

 

Spencer exits the stall and shuffles to the sink, where he turns on the water but doesn’t make a move to wash.  Instead he braces both arms on the porcelain and glances at his reflection in the spotted mirror.  He’s pale to the point of ghostliness, and his hair clings to his forehead with clammy sweat.  The armpits of his oxford are also soaked through.  He thinks about buttoning his cardigan to cover the damp stains, but it seems like far too much effort.

 

Morgan offers a paper towel, which Spencer takes, partially wadding it up so he can hold it and brace on the sink at the same time.  “You alright?”  Morgan checks in. 

 

“Yeah…” Spencer says spacily, looking down at the running water between his hands.  He knows he probably looks ready to pass out.

 

“You’ll be ok by yourself?” 

 

“Yeah.”  Spencer forces his voice to come out more confidently.

 

“Ok.  If you’re not out in 5 minutes, I’m coming back for you,” Morgan says as he opens the bathroom door and steps outside. 

 

Spencer slowly releases the sink with one hand and dips it in the stream of icy tap water.  He knows he shouldn’t drink it, what with all the mining contamination, but he should be safe to wash up.  Cool down. 

 

He actually can’t really tell if he’s hot or cold.  The sensation playing over his skin isn’t the heat that comes with nausea or the chill that comes with fever.  It’s more like the prickling of a thousand tiny cockroach feet. 

 

Spencer splashes his face, catching his hair as he bends over the sink.  Then he pats his skin with the rough paper towel.  Vertigo almost overwhelms him when he takes his second hand away from the porcelain handhold, but he inhales the slightly woody scent of the paper towel and forces himself to remain upright. 

 

Besides removing some residual bile from around his mouth, the hasty wash job does nothing to make Spencer feel better.  He still feels filthy, like a greasy, germy teenager.  He takes a deep breath, swallows foul-tasting mucousy saliva, and slips out of the bathroom. 

 

***

 

Once the dinner bill is paid, the team exits the restaurant and opens umbrellas against the drizzle.  The general intent is to walk back to the Police Station and get in a few more hours work, but Spencer knows he can’t join in.  He wants nothing more than to sleep (or at least try to sleep) so he won’t have to feel so awkwardly unwell for a while. 

 

He doesn’t get a chance to speak up, though.  Hotch claps a hand on his shoulder and says, “You need to go to the hotel and rest.” 

 

Spencer doesn’t reply.  Hotch continues, “I’ll walk with you.”  Then, to the rest of the team, “Don’t wait for me.  Get as much done as you can.”

 

They split up, Hotch and Spencer heading down the block to the Holiday Inn while everyone else crosses the street.  Spencer feels the toast Morgan forced him to eat sitting heavily in his stomach.  There’s no way he’ll get out of talking.  He tries to remind himself that it’s not that bad.  Telling the truth is not hard.  It’s just the lingering feeling of stupidity that bothers him as he struggles to explain what and why he’s feeling.

 

Once in the hotel, they ride the elevator up to Spencer’s room.  Spencer fumbles the key card into the door slot, then steps over the threshold and sinks down on the end of the bed.  Hotch pulls the chair over from the desk in the corner and sits opposite.

 

“Reid,” Hotch says. 

 

Spencer doesn’t make eye contact.

 

“I know you’re not feeling well.  And you don’t like getting attention like this,” Hotch continues.  “But I need to know what’s going on with you.  Not because I don’t think you can take care of yourself, but we have three dead girls and a killer on the loose.  The team can’t work at its best if you’re not honest with me.  And we need the team working at its best right now.”

 

Spencer sighs and finally raises his head.  He feels like crying.  His sinuses are heavy and there’s immense pressure behind his eyes and in his forehead. 

 

“I just…” Spencer starts, “I just feel bad.  My head hurts and I keep getting nauseous.  My whole body is just…uncomfortable,” he tries to explain.  “It’s not—I don’t think I have a fever or anything.”

 

“I know you haven’t been eating,” Hotch says.  “Sleeping?”

 

Spencer shrugs.  “Sometimes.  Have a hard time most nights.”

 

“You’ve been having migraines.”  It’s not a question.

 

Spencer tightly closes his eyes and presses the bridge of his nose between his fingers.  “Yeah, but…” he whispers.  “I mean, I’m not…I don’t really know.  If this is aura, it’s different from how it’s been before.”  He takes a deep breath and grasps for any semblance of composure.

 

Hotch’s hand comes down on Spencer’s knee.  “I have to ask.  Have you taken anything?”

 

He knows his supervisor means hard drugs, but Spencer can still barely whisper, “Excedrin.”

 

“Did it help?”

 

“No.”  The word hardly escapes Spencer’s lips when the dam breaks.  His eyes are wet behind his fingers and his breath is caught up in a painful sob.

 

“It’s alright,” Hotch soothes.  He increases the pressure on Spencer’s knee. 

 

Spencer sobs again.  He feels his heart beating fast and hard, and his head throbs in time with it.  Vertigo assaults him, and Spencer leans forward to rest elbows on knees and head in hands. Hotch’s comforting touch jumps up to Spencer’s shoulder. 

 

Spencer takes a deep inhale and wills the dizziness down, but it turns to nausea anyway.  He focuses on his feet, not quite toe-to-toe with Hotch and tries to tell himself he’s fine.  The next sob brings on an excess of bitter saliva, and Spencer swallows thickly. 

 

“Reid?” Hotch questions, fatherly instincts kicking in.

 

“I—” he swallows again.  “’M sorry, I think I’m gonna throw up.”  Spencer struggles upright, almost tripping over Hotch and unsure of what to do with his arms.

 

“Ok, yep,” Hotch intones as he stands and hovers at Spencer’s shoulder as the younger man moves to the bathroom. 

 

Spencer bends over the toilet and sobs until a gag cuts him off.  Half a slice of undigested toast and a few sips of water don’t take long to expel, but time feels suspended, and both retches and sobs taste bad and make his stomach muscles hurt.  He’s so dizzy he’s half afraid he’ll fall forward and drown in the toilet water.

 

Spencer isn’t sure how much time has elapsed when his stomach finally stops spasaming and he feels comfortable moving away from the toilet.  He uses the edge of the counter to pull himself upright and drag himself over to the sink.  Spencer rinses his mouth with the probably-not-safe-to-drink water and buries his face in a hand towel. 

 

He’s shaking horribly.  Everything, from his fingers to his lips feel clumsy and freezing.  The only thing he wants is to lie down so maybe his surroundings will move from painful back into ordinary. Spencer drops the towel onto the counter and slowly steps back toward the bedroom. 

 

He gets as far as the door when his legs give out.  So does his vision, and he has no idea where he is for a moment.  Then an arm catches him around the chest and the world does a dizzying swoop as everything rights itself. 

 

And finally, finally the skull-splitting pain hits.  It’s almost a relief.

 

“Hey, ok, take it easy,” Hotch says.  “Reid, you with me?”  He gets his arm solidly around Spencer’s shoulders. 

 

Spencer swallows and tries to respond.  His throat is raw and full of snot, his very brain is being sawed in half, and his “yeah,” comes out as a hoarse croak.  He coughs and shifts his feet so he’s steadier.  “oh, god.”

 

“Alright, the bed’s right here.”  Hotch supports Spencer the five or so feet, and Spencer immediately sits and curls onto his side on top of the quilt.  Tears are leaking from his eyes again, and every part of him is trembling.

 

Hotch’s phone rings.  The ringtone indicates it’s one of the BAU team members.  Hotch answers, and Spencer covers his face with his hand and feels guilty all over again.  Someone’s probably found something, actions probably need to be taken.  The team leader should be there at the police station, not here putting Spencer to bed.

 

“Hi, JJ,” Hotch says.  Spencer can hear JJ’s voice on the other end of the line, but it’s too soft to understand the words.

 

“He’s uh…” Hotch sighs.  “He’s not good right now.”  She must have asked how Spencer is doing.  Another wave of guilt slams into him, worsening his headache.  Now he’s distracting JJ too.

 

“He’s upset.  He got sick and almost passed out,” Hotch says.  Spencer doesn’t want to hear it, and he wonders why Hotch doesn’t leave the room.  Either he’s afraid to take his eyes of Spencer, or he wants him to hear what he’s saying. 

 

“Yeah, I think maybe the pain finally hit.  He’s very dehydrated, and that’s what’s worrying me.  And we don’t have any drinkable water here.” 

 

There’s a long pause as JJ’s voice sounds again.  Then Hotch says, “Ok, let me see if he’s up to it.”  He holds the phone to his chest and crouches beside Spencer.  “JJ wants to talk to you.  Is that ok?  Do you want to talk to her?” 

 

Spencer’s first thought is no, he does not want to talk to JJ.  She’s probably his closest friend, and she’ll do everything in her power to make him feel better.  But Spencer’s not weak, he does not need help.  Especially for something ridiculous like anxiety and a headache.  But in his state of severe discomfort, all Spencer can do is nod and reach up for the phone as tears flood his eyes.

 

Spencer takes a shaky breath.

 

“Spence?” JJ asks gently.  “Hey.”

 

“Hi,” Spencer whispers.

 

“You really don’t feel good, huh?”

 

It’s one of those questions where _yes_ and _no_ mean the same thing.  “Eh,” Spencer replies, trying not to sob into the phone. 

 

“Is it your head?”

 

“Yeah.”  He’d gladly go to a guillotine for relief.

 

“And your stomach?”

 

“Yeah, I don’t know.  ‘s just everything.  Hurts.  Doesn’t feel right.” 

 

“Oh, Spence.  Can I come see you?  Maybe get you something to drink so we can get you feeling better?”

 

“But…the case?” Spencer asks.

 

“The internet is so slow it’ll probably take another hour or two for anything to turn up.  We’ve got Garcia on it back in Quantico.  It’s a miracle this call hasn’t broken up yet.”  She pauses for a second.  “Is it ok if I come see you?  We’re probably gonna call it a night here.”

 

Emotion crashes through him again as Spencer tightens his grip on the phone.  “Yes.  Please, JJ.  Yeah.”

 

“Ok.  I’ll be there soon.  I’ll be right there.”  She hangs up, and Spencer slowly moves the device away from his ear and returns it to Hotch.

 

Spencer stays curled on his side on the bed.  Hotch removes Spencer’s shoes for him and offers to help him into a more comfortable position, but Spencer declines.  He must have drifted into a light sleep, because all of a sudden someone’s saying his name and pushing his hair off his forehead.

 

“Spence.”  It’s JJ.

 

Spencer doesn’t open his eyes, but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to see even if he does.  Bright silver-white shimmers poke at his left eye, making it water with more than just impending tears. Aura’s supposed to come first.  He’s so off track he can’t even have a migraine properly.

 

Before he can form another coherent thought, he’s sitting up, his head swimming, and pressing his face into her stomach. 

“Hey, Spence,” JJ whispers.  “Alright.”  She wraps her arms around his head and shoulders, pressing him to her. 

 

Every single thing that’s ever been right or wrong or harrowing or painful seems to flash behind Spencer’s eyelids as he leans into the embrace.  His confused non-childhood, his mother’s illness, leftover PTSD and quirks from months on dilaudid, the inability to relate to other people, the debilitating headaches with no apparent cause…all of it falls in big, salty tears.

 

***

 

When Spencer wakes next, it’s still dark.  No light filters through the hotel room’s cheap curtains.  Spencer’s grateful; he’s positive any errant sunshine would send him heaving over the edge of the bed.  The pain’s settled in his right temple, and if it weren’t so damn incapacitating, he’d be relieved. 

 

Spencer struggles to remember exactly what happened after JJ came into the room.  Everything in the past 24 hours seems like a painful blur, but that length of time’s especially blank.  There were comforts and kind words, Spencer thinks, then water and Gatorade and vomit.  Or maybe he’d been sick before she arrived.  It hardly matters now.

 

The mattress dips a millimeter, and Spencer rides the resulting wave of queasy agony.  JJ’s still here, he realizes, lying behind him, fully clothed, on top of the slick hotel comforter.

 

“You ok?” she asks sleepily.

 

“Hm,” Spencer affirms.  “Ok.”

 

“Feel better?”

 

Spencer’s torn.  Physically, it’s about the same as it was last night when the puzzle pieces realigned themselves into garden-variety migraine territory.  Which is to say his head feels like it’s going to fall off, his stomach’s in knots, and his eyesight’s completely shot.  But in terms of knowing what he’s up against, the reprieve is almost magical.  A day or two of hellacious headaches is manageable, it’s the devil he knows rather than the void of anxiety and depression and drug cravings that he wishes he doesn’t.

 

“I’ll be ok,” he whispers.

 

“How about right now?”  JJ doesn’t miss a beat, even when she’s half asleep.

 

Spencer doesn’t answer.  JJ fills in the blank.  “Still not so good?” 

 

She’s up on her feet before Spencer can protest, bringing Excedrin and Gatorade. 

 

“You don’t have to stay.  You should rest,” Spencer whispers after he’s painfully hauled himself upright so he can swallow the pills.

 

“I have Henry.  I’m used to being up at all hours,” JJ replies with a wan smile.  “Besides, someone’s gotta look out for you when you’ve got a headache.  Remind you to take fluids.  Otherwise you’re no use to the team.”

 

The eye contact she initiates says so much more than the sentence.  _When you’ve got a headache_ may as well have been _when you cry about your mom_ or _crave long-gone drugs_ or _claw through depression_ or __n_ eed to mourn three dead girls_.  _Someone’s gotta remind you to take care of yourself._

 

“I don’t mean that you can’t do it on your own.”  JJ echoes Hotch’s words from earlier in the evening.

 

“Yeah,” Spencer sighs.  He realizes with a sudden onset of exhaustion that it’s not bothering him much anymore.  He has done a shit job of getting himself through any of it.  Maybe it is that dose of human contact he struggles so much with that actually makes all the difference.  “I, uh, I really appreciate it.”

 

“I’d do it for anyone I care about,” JJ murmurs.  She rescues the Gatorade from Spencer’s softening grip.  “I don’t know what I did before you joined up,” she continues in a whisper.  “You’re like my brother now.”

 

As Spencer drifts asleep again, he turns through pages of mental photographs again.  Bumper-to-bumper Los Vegas traffic.  Lonely country roads.  Three dead girls who deserve justice.  Hotchbending to unlace Spencer’s shoes.  JJ lining up bottles of water along the edge of the bedside table. 

 

He knows what’s important. 

 

And he thinks he might just feel a little better.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if you've had a day like this, but sometimes it's just like everything is kind of off, and you wonder why everything is so fucked up, and then at like 10:30 at night (and with my luck, I'm in the car) everything just goes to shit with pain and nausea and visual disturbances and you're like, what the fuck, migraine? you're supposed to come on in an orderly fashion so I can take medication to destroy you!
> 
> In other news, was this ok? Should I go back to solely MCU fics, or can this be a thing every once in a while?


End file.
